


If I Had a Heart

by Fxnfarra



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Parenting, Bisexual Loki (Marvel), Blood and Violence, Childhood Trauma, Comfort/Angst, Drinking to Cope, F/F, F/M, Family Secrets, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), Imperialism, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Loki (Marvel) Feels, M/M, Minor Sif/Thor (Marvel), Multi, My OC has Mommy Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pansexual Character, Partners to Lovers, Polyamorous Character, Rich Eating the Rich, Sharp Objects type of Mommy Issues, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26236327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxnfarra/pseuds/Fxnfarra
Summary: Almost three centuries ago, the Aesir and Vane clans came to hate and fear one another, and these hostilities erupted into a war. The Aesir fought by the rules of plain combat, with weapons and brute force, while the Vane used the subtler means of magic. The war went on for quite a time, with both sides gaining the upper hand by turns until the inevitable truce.Now, Astrid is one of the four last Vanir alive; and her job is to serve and protect the Asgardian kingdom.Children have been missing and bodies of male victims are found mangled and murdered in the roots of Myrkvidr, in Vanaheim, under the shadow of the abandoned Vanir architecture. A hunt ensues with the suspicious return of a long extinct creature - the Nøkken. Being part of the royal guard, Astrid has been tasked to help during the hunt, but she finds herself conflicted between following her moral principles and ending up being guilty of treason.As the group delves deeper into the Nine Realms' secrets, Astrid forms an unlikely bond with the youngest prince, Loki Odinson. But no matter where they go, the burden of history and hurtful memories continue to overshadow present relationships - and her loyalty is tested by both families.
Relationships: Fandral/Loki (Marvel), Frigga | Freyja & Loki (Marvel), Loki & Thor (Marvel), Loki (Marvel)/Original Character(s), Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), Sif & Warriors Three (Marvel), Sif/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hii everyone!  
> So, this one is just a prologue. I suck at worldbuilding.

THERE IS AN OLD BELIEF IN ASGARD THAT IF YOU SEE A VANIR CRY, YOU'LL BE GRANTED LUCK.

That is a misconception. A dangerous one. There will be richness indeed, and one may mistake wealth for luck, but the opposite is true. If you see a Vanir cry, you should embrace yourself for the torment.

Actually, Asgard is full of those old, _archaic, obsolete_ beliefs, but a specific one has been proved correct. Beauty makes the Vanir hopeless. From their architecture filled with citadels and mighty castles; narrowing to their grand festivals; leading to their loud, colorful garments; the Vanir are - _by the spiteful words of the Aesir_ \- alluring, but vain. Nothing you shouldn't already expect from a people that cry liquid gold.

In Vanaheim, when the winter is at its darkest, the foreigners fear the unknown powers of the Myrkvidr. A forest with enough trees to build a bonfire the size of the sun, and from where the Vanir draw their strength. Needle-sharp leaves painting of steel-blue all over the Northern region like an ocean. Its royalty was traditionally from the several Vanir bloodlines, alternating power between families. The last lineage to have taken the throne before the war erupted was the Kvasir, of king Njord and queen Skadi.

Vanir and Aesir are sister races, both mirror and opposite of each other. Vanaheim is made of healers, capable and gentle, named _Vanes_ \- birthed mainly from the union between Light Elves and Vanir - populating from South mountains to East shores. Contrary to their counterpart, the Aesir have been built by a culture of war; the ones who say to be against savagery, but bloodshed is always a ritual. They walk a knife-edge between life and death, and power (by a very subjective point of view) is their birthright. By the time the war began, the Aesir reign already had plenty of planets firmly tied by their strings.

Both tribes lived in peace for millennia, with equal measures of mutual hatred. They once fought together to defeat Malekith and his Svartálfar army, protecting the Nine Realms from the destructive powers of the red matter known as the Aether. However, the amity faded with King Bor's life, and of three sons, the most suitable one was crowned in his place. Odin inherited the title of Allfather and carried on with their imperialist ideology and _six_ of nine realms of Yggdrasil in his hand.

At the same time, Freyja, Njord's daughter and princess of Vanaheim, began to expand the practice of Vanir shamanism within any avid student. Although Seidr had always been traditional between a select group of women, her project was extremely important for a generation of masters and fundamental for the decrease of prejudices towards practitioners. What meant: recognizing the amount of knowledge the Vanir held.

Unsatisfied, Odin ordered such practices forbidden in Asgardian territory, for misleading their women and corrupting their men. _This witchcraft. These perverted doings._ Here is where we see the dangers of old beliefs: folks will look around and wonder where their luck has been. Why can't they keep growing, growing and growing without a care about their shadow? Who has stolen them? Because stealing is probably all they've ever known. Then, they will remember that tears (but not theirs) will bring it back.

That is how you start a war.

A small group of young and passionate rogues took it upon their hands to exploit in the name of their kingdom. Faith-hunger. Blood-hunger. They would have _nine_ of the Nine Realms in their hands.

They invaded the royal palace. They set Freyja on fire. As if she was only a body, only a bleeding heart, with fire ranging down her throat and riots buzzing under her skin. She survived the flames without wounds on her surface, but her heart was never the same.

Life is a battle for gods and humans alike. While humans battle for life, the gods battle for existence itself. Also, history has been written by the particularly unimaginative winners, so don't let the awful titles hold you back, it gets interesting.

The _Aesir-Vanir War_ was proclaimed by Njord, a retaliation that endured centuries with no certainty. Part of the population ended up finding refuge in Midgard, where they shared settlements with Humans, no less.

In theory, calling truce after centuries of loss and hunger is the desirable thing to do. You both pack your things and head away back home, finally, in a breeze of relief. That's all you want after war. But when you have past centuries of loss and hunger, you may not have a home to go back in the first place, and pride turns out to be the strongest support you have to keep standing. You won't want to call a truce now after all has burned away. However, if you don't make the decision, it will be made for you.

Taking advantage of the fatigue of both kingdoms, King Laufey, from Jotunheim, attacked Midgard.

Vanaheim, grieving the slaughtering of its people, and Asgard, fragile with the destruction of its land, made a biased agreement. In peace, they fought together and defeated the Frost Giants, but the victory had only one name.

The Allfather became king of the Nine Realms. The Aesir rebuilt Asgard, not from scrambles, but from the treasures of their enemies. They found richness. They found luck.

What remained to Vanaheim was the aftermath stripped of all its glory.

What remained to the Vanir was few and simple as counting to _three_.

  
  
**Midgard, 783.**

  
IT'S SUMMER, AND THE CITIZENS OF TØNSBERG HAVE NEVER SEEN SUCH CRUEL COLDNESS BEFORE. Dozens of children of all ages, barefoot or with worn-out boots, play on the lifeless meadow.

Women are hanging skinned animals, slicing their fur coats, calling out to each other with bloodied knives in their fists. Their voices echo against the tenement walls, and the air fizzes with yelling and laughter.

In spite of the poverty and recent attacks, there is a feeling of huge energy and vigor, rather than despair.

Men elevate brick walls to form a new temple. A magnificent picture was carved inside the sanctuary to represent what they believe to be the axis of the world - Yggdrasil. All the details and ornaments are not, in fact, as important as the function of the temple, but Freyja would rather rebuild the place time after time if that meant it would live up to its reputation.

Well, _she_ wouldn't have to do anything. The King would do it for her.

Freyja's braided hair exposes her face, young and fresh, and numbed by the freezing air. She stays still, staring past the constructions and seeking the horizon with keen silver-colored eyes resembling two polished coins; a remarkable feature of her family, as rare as themselves. A cloak of feathers covers her whole body leaving only the neckline bare to display the distinct necklace that holds a red gem.

The jewelry is impressive, but not as important at the moment as the stone she firmly holds with both hands, hidden under the cloak. The Cosmic Cube, the crystalline vessel that contains the Space Stone, a vivid blue matter too powerful to be left without supervision, and the reason for the new construction.

As her fingertips press against the cube's surface, Freyja is stricken by the same feeling of when she first held the Aether. The thrill of seeing something you are not allowed to see. Like a flood, she recalls Malekith; Bor; Odin; her father; her brother; the king of Tønsberg; her own husband waiting at Asgard; the men who bounded her on top of that pyre; the Dwarves that made her necklace. Men, unfortunately, is what she is reminded of.

"I am not a thing to be owned," she murmurs to herself. No, _she owns things._

Sitting by Freyja's feet, guarding her, are two blueish grey cats. Their height - almost reaching her hips - and their wide amber eyes are good indications that they are not fooled by any bird. In the stillness, their ears can tell her things that were drowned out, and it's their uneasiness that makes Freyja turn around to find her twin brother marching in her direction from one of the huts.

They look very much alike, with light-blond hair and precise features. Frey is a clearcut man with an equally cutting smile. With too much attitude for someone who takes few things seriously.

He stops by his sister's side. She no longer faces him, gazing back at the horizon. The wind blows through his tangled hair and she can notice him glancing around like an amazed child. A laugh bursts from his lips, getting her attention. "Are you drunk?" She guesses.

"Of sunlight," he declares. "And mead, perhaps." Frey analyzes her, who hasn't yet looked away from the infinite nothing. "What is it with the chin-up? Training to how you're going to stride along Asgard's smooth pavement?"

Clenching her jaw, Freyja gazes at the reviving grass under their boots. The trail of renewed vitality follows Frey and expands around him, staining the surroundings. He is bringing summer to Norway.

Breathing just a little and calling it life.

"I feel younger here. As if I went back to the past," Frey says. "Actually, more like all those memories in-between were from a past life that cut my current life suddenly, and now I have to restart."

"Maybe you should restart."

"But it's not easy, huh?"

She sighs and slowly shakes her head. "No, it's not."

Two crows fly past them, out of reach. Huginn and Muninn, the crows that land next to Odin's throne every night and tell him what they have seen. One of the crows opens its beak and caws at them, a harsh, piercing cry, before parting ways.

Freyja rolls her eyes. "But I'm never becoming old and I’m never dying, so the Norns can figure that one out."


	2. Ink and water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It starts with Sif pov, but it's pretty fast 'cause I know you guys are not here for it.  
> But she will be like a parallel to Astrid, so it will happen once or twice to keep the plot going.

IT ISN'T THE BEST STRATEGY FOR DEALING WITH EMOTIONS, but it is Sif's strategy.

The young woman readjusts the bucket of fresh water on her grip and walks into the stable located within the grounds of the royal family, in a village where the Einherjar live and where Sif has been living since she won the Balder Tournament years ago, earning the chance to become an apprentice. Her ebony hair, almost always neatly tied in a high ponytail for practicality, sways at her solid pace. However, it is not her own steps that she hears, but those of the first-born prince who follows her.

"You missed seeing my victory," Thor voices after a long waiting silence.

Sif reaches her mare's stall and fills the water container. "I left right after your opponents threw you back your weapon."

"You don't believe I should have won today's match?"

He's genuinely confused, she can tell; inexplicably waiting for a critique different from what she has given him. Or no critiques at all. But sugar-coating problems has never helped anyone. "Not just today's."

With her free hand, she caresses Brightwind's face. As someone who's greatest family heritage is rural knowledge, it sadness Sif to know about the solitude and harshness with which those animals are treated in certain reigns, making them so debased.

Several quiet minutes pass. The stable empties with Thor's patience. "A comment like that requires an explanation, Sif."

She places down the bucked and turns to finally focus on him. Her friend; but mostly, her prince - a very stubborn one. His sky-blue eyes are the shade of the storm, but Sif is not one to pay attention to colors. His face, always lit like the sun when he smiled, now is burning as a seizing candle - with blond strands framing his face and blushing cheeks that she would only assume of anger.

In her ignorance - and denial - Sif translates her fast-beating heart wrong. She feels offended by his naivety. Her face closes in an unprovoked rage.

From a young age she became interested in how her brother was the only one of the three siblings allowed to be angry (to _feel_ the anger), along with her father. Her mother is a lady, you see. And a farmer. How she has managed to be both, Sif wonders, could only be explained by being a woman - expected to be the best on both sides and ending with a blend personality and dull purpose in life.

As an escape from this, Sif decided - still when a kid wearing ragged boots, useless skirts, and holding tight at a wicker basket with rough hands - she would do what the men did. She would own her anger.

"I'll tell you what needs explaining, Thor. Why you have never once ceded victory to the Einherjar, the most celebrated warriors in Asgard!"

The prince plants his hands on his hips, chest out. "I am simply more skilled than they are."

"How can that be? They have battled the fiercest creatures in all the Nine Realms, and you have never even left the royal grounds." Sif takes a step towards Thor, who doesn't flinch.

"You forget I also have the strength of Odin."

"Yes, and the authority. They have no choice but to lose."

Thor looks down, a mere second before looking up in defiance again. "Why do you have so little faith in me, Sif?"

"I am the only one who has faith in you. Everyone else treats you like a spoiled child--"

"That is enough," he mutters, tightening his fists.

Sif gazes at him. That banter will cause no harm. If there is something she knows being truthful about Thor is his loyalty; perhaps that is why she feels disappointed, as he is not able to see her own devotion. "Very well, see you later, Thor."

She leans to grasp the bucket and without protests marches away from the stable, unfortunately losing the cool shadows sheltering her on that muggy afternoon. Bits of hair escape from her ponytail; she pushes it back behind her ears with annoyance. Shorter strands that wouldn't be a problem if Loki, the younger prince, hadn't played a moronic prank on her.

Sif is halfway across the land when she recognizes Hogun - a friend and brother in battle - approaching her. She stops and waits for him to arrive, greeting him with a mild smile. "To have returned so soon, I imagine Fandral has caused another turmoil?"

"I wish it was as simple as that, _lady_ Sif." She winces at hearing the designation, but gives no objection, as her friend's tone seems to carry more than his usual grimace. "The All-Father has called for us."

"Us?"

It doesn't take long for Thor to keep up with them.

"You would be of great help," Hogun says. "I came to call you to join us for this meeting."

"A new adventure, my friend? What would that be?" Thor asks.

"I'm not sure, although I could bet it is in Vanaheim."  
  


  
THE FIRST THING LOKI PAID ATTENTION TO WHEN HE FIRST MET ASTRID KVASIR WAS HER STUPID HAIR.

Astrid is a blonde. Lighter than the strawberry-blond of his family, but blonde nonetheless. Back then it had been a lot shorter, with a stealth buzzcut, the way he had only seen on Light Elves before. From the far balcony, the Prince and his family watched the tournament, it looked like an unkempt mess, but soon he came to realize it was strategically cut so as not to get in the way during battles and to keep _her_ away from the Aesir standard.

Astrid, his father said after the first day of trials, was a deviant. Her mother, Lady Freyja, was an important delegate to the Vanes, but also a powerful symbol that has been cracking itself with her own vile actions. The girl was a bastard daughter of a nameless Midgardian king who no one would ever remember as there was no strong feature in her that didn't resemble her always present mother. She was a Vanir, what naturally meant: a healer, not a soldier.

Even so, while the King and his first son rationalized about how she could or not be useful as a warrior's apprentice - because nothing tastes better than a tender lamb -, Loki could only see how she looked more of the royalty than the Prince himself.

Loki Odinson, different from his older brother in each and every sense, was born with the raven-colored hair natural to the country-folk. A detail that has hunted the boy over the past decades, and would for thousands more.

That's the thing with first impressions, you can never try a second time. Because wondering back at the second and third and seventh thing he had known about Astrid, her hair shouldn't matter at all. But Loki likes to believe the universe wronged them.

Her hair is longer now, below her shoulders; dull and blond. Her Asgardian visage has been working just fine.

Loki sighs heavily, looking up at the clear sky and closing his eyes to the dreadful sun that has been burning his face the whole day. He can hear the stream at his ankles crackling and swinging as Astrid sways her legs. Cold fingers suddenly caress his shoulder, so he turns to look at her with an inquisitive expression.

"It's full of freckles," she simply says. Her silvery voice causing goosebumps up his arms.

Loki looks down and sees the powdered stains over the few exposed parts of his body, certainly covering his nose and cheeks by now. Ugly, like someone had thrown mud at him.

Astrid gives a half-smile, just enough to call attention to her slightly prominent front teeth. "It looks like water with paint. When someone shakes the brush."

She retreats her hand. It's when Loki notices, besides the thin and expensive rings she wears, the black ink outlining symbols over her alabaster skin - leaves crawling her index finger; dots and geometric forms over her knuckles like decorative pieces. His fingers curl around the edge of her hand and with his thumb he tries to smudge the symbols, but the paint is stuck. "It's engraved," he voices, impressed.

"And they are just the first ones."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Does your mother knows?"

Her smile fades. She tilts her head and a few loose strands of hair tickle her nose. "She didn't believe me either."

Loki should know better than to listen to the gossips; but who is he trying to deceive? Loki is the best on it. What makes him wonder, what would her mother not believe about it? Sure thing, Lady Freyja is as prone to vanity and rituals as her daughter. Maybe it is because Astrid decided it by herself, or maybe because the symbol she chose to engrave had no resentful meaning.

Their hands are still tangled together, and Loki likes how they fit perfectly. At the same time, he worries the touch is just a mechanism to help her read him better. It's torturing and appealing to have someone who can sense your clouded emotions when you are already too comfortable expressing yourself through measured words.

Astrid must have sensed the hesitancy too because she is the one to break contact. "Try again." She points towards the water.

Loki touches the surface of the stream and rises a small wall that hovers in the air, just inches from the palm of his hands. At History class, he had once learned a war story about a Vane coastal group that locked their opponents by shaping the seawater and successfully drowning them. He can feel his Seidr shifting between him and the water, manipulating its course, but it is easier said than done.

"Now try to influence it," she whispers. "A spell's power is in its suggestion."

But Loki's control over Seidr is not as alluring as Astrid's. The suppressed liquid takes the unstable form of a serpent, hissing and attacking Loki, splashing water over him.

The Prince looks like a drowned cat; his dark hair gets completely drenched and his clothes are soaked against his skin. Astrid bursts out a laughter, a music Loki would have loved to hear if not given these circumstances. He feels his face heat up with anger - not self-consciousness, definitely anger. "You find humor in this?"

Astrid shakes her head, containing her breath. "Loki, you granted magic to water. It became a snake, and a snake bites." She gives a genuine smile, one that wrinkles the sides of her nose. Loki makes a mental note. _Give Astrid more nose wrinkles._ "You did it perfectly."

Nothing about it is perfect. It is a great disappointment and a shame to the kingdom, not so much when he fails during these few training sessions, but because he chose to follow such wicked and feminine ways. No one wanted a sorcerer for a king. The kings of Asgard were warriors. They wore their armor polished and their scars from battle casually on display like ostentatious accessories.

And Astrid is there, all pink and gold and glittering. When she hurts herself sparring, " _it's just blood_ ," she says because she must want an excuse to draw blood from them too. But she always stops herself just before the line.

From afar they are like young lovers, sitting close to each other so their knees are touching, sharing laughter and sipping sweet wine from the same chalice. From up close, they are allies of a treason against themselves; filthy liars. Or maybe that is what lovers are, and they just don't know yet.

What he asks and what he means, then, are two different things. "Did I?"

Astrid nods and opens her mouth to say something, but stops herself. Loki raises an eyebrow. "Are you angry?" She finally asks.

"I wouldn't call it anger."

She scoffs. "I know my prince keeps resentments like a pet, but naming it is already too far."

 _Oh, come on!_ Homeopathic doses of grudge come in handy when the party gets monotonous. "The anger is not mine, this time."

A shuffle of leaves comes from the forest across the stream, and Astrid promptly reaches for her twin daggers and gets up. Her job is to serve the kingdom and protect the prince if needed so. But Loki always has a sharp blade up his bracer.

A branch snaps and Thor appears. Loki gives a bitter laughter and Astrid lowers her weapons. Obviously (and he hopes he is not mistaken about it), Heimdall, the all-see guardian, would have warned any Einherjar if someone idiotically planned on attacking the Prince from nowhere. Besides, Astrid isn't wearing an armor herself, but a dress short enough to see the small scar on her left knee.

"Look at him carefully and tell me if he's mad because of me," Loki whispers.

The water flashes the grey in her eyes and silver in her daggers as Astrid attaches the weapons to her belt, leaving exposed the handler in gold-inlaid and cat motifs. She moves to crouch beside Loki, so confidentially close they almost touche noses. Loki feels the apprentice's gaze caressing his face.

"What did you do this time, your grace?"

Loki hesitates. "Nothing."

She looks over his shoulder. "Clenched jaw. Tense muscles. But not looking at you; he seems pretty committed with something. He must be frustrated with a scheme and wants your help." Astrid looks back at him. "I guess our swimming plan will have to wait."

Loki frowns. _Thor is a dead man_.

Astrid touches the tip of his nose. "Look who's angry now."

By the time Thor finishes crossing the stream through the clearing, the two of them are finishing lacing their boots.

"Astrid." Thor's face shifts into a kind gaze, but still no trace of a smile. "You may leave us now."

"Yes, Your Highness." With her hands behind her back, she follows the path the prince had just made and soon soothes from Loki's view.

"Do you need something, Brother?"

"Yes," Thor finally smiles, Loki now can see the commitment Astrid was talking about. "How is your magic?"

Loki lifts his chin, switching his attention to his black-painted nails. "It happens to be fairly advanced. Why?"

"Because we're stealing aboard the Thunder Runner, and we'll need your talents on our journey to Vanaheim."

Loki pauses. "I lied. I'm not very good."

Thor pats his shoulder, so hard that Loki wonders if it was supposed to be a threat rather than affection. "This hunt is more than just a fun time, Loki, it's a serious matter."

"You just say it because you are curious about the forest--"

"And the mythic creature!" He beams. "This is it. We'll hide ourselves in the hold."

"Hide ourselves? From our friends?"

"Friends who are not foolhardy enough to set sail with the sons of Odin on their vessel."

Loki sights, crossing his arms over his chest. "And there is a reason why Father didn't ask for us to be involved. We have Einhenjar to do the hunt. We are the princes, we are supposed to live a little longer than that."

Despite what the commonfolk murmur and what his father spites, Loki is not scared easily. He is not frightened of battles or too frail to be a warrior. He just doesn't want it. What by definition should give him the right not to be as good in it as he is supposed to.

"Besides," he continues. "Will Heimdall let us go without chattering to Father?"

"Since when do you mind about Heimdall?"

"I don't. I thought you would."

Thor laughs. "Come on, Brother, it is not an act of war, we will help our cousins to find lost children and endangered brothers. We can prove our worth!"

Loki feels the burn of jealousy at his fearlessness - the way he doesn't seem to feel any shame when their father scolds him. His own heart always twists no matter how high he raises his chin in defiance. No matter how blameless he thinks himself.

Gradually, Thor's imposing attitude vanishes, and his eyes fill with tenderness. "I can't do it without you."

 _Oh, how nice of you to call me for your little defiance, Thor, when you have just interrupted something!_ His mind screams, hoping the worlds would be loud enough to smack the back of his brother's head, but without saying them, so he wouldn't have to deal with answers.

The problem with Thor is that he expects everyone to do everything he asks for. The problem with Loki is that he almost always does. It is how his brother shows he cares, pulling Loki into a suffocating watching. He has always been one to try hugging therapy instead of words, maybe because his vocabulary hardly goes beyond five or six words.

Loki squeezes his eyes shut. "Very well," he sights, opening his glistening eyes and lifting his chin once again. "But I'm not hiding myself."  
  


  
THE YOUNG WARRIOR WALKS AWAY FROM THE CLEARING towards the rubble path opening a passage through the forest. The air is humid and white flower seeds float everywhere, making her sweat skin itchy. She still recognizes the murmurs, both from the brothers and the water, not very far.

When Astrid was a little girl, she used to swim a little bit further on where huge blocks of stone formed shallow pools, to just come home in soaked clothes. From time to time, older boys equipped with machetes and stolen beer hidden in the canteens passed by, stomping around trying to hit squirrels or hares. Those infuriated, boastful boys; thankfully, almost always ignoring her existence. _Almost_.

There are different types of hunting, now she knows. The boys she saw, who started early, were bloodthirsty hunters. They were pleased to see the fatal reaction of a ferocious animal, then injured and vulnerable.

Walking now over the rocky ground, she sees it, so vividly as if she is living it once again. The girl sitting near that blond danger with dimples and a honeyed voice that sang, sang, sang. Until it became a chant, and the music turned into a horror story. The little girl, who had been laughing just a moment before, got to her knees, then to her feet, then ran. Thorns scraping around her ankles and golden tears shining under her eyes.

Astrid - not a girl, not anymore, but a young woman - supports herself on a tree, hands clasped over her mouth. Gasping. There are no tears now; yet, the end is all the same.

Her heart hammering in her chest suddenly reminds her of being alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, I don't know if I did a good job at separating Vanir from Vane so here it goes: Vanir is a tribe like the Aesir and they have this really old rivalry where things get kinda personal. But different from the Aesir who already consider each other Aesir just by being born from Asgardians, the Vanir had those distinctive features and a link to Vanaheim - so now that all lineages were killed, there's only three (four with the OC) who are Vanir.  
> The Vanes are other people who live in Vanaheim and have different cultures from each other. They are just as rightful of their lands, and that's the problem they have with the Aesir - it's about the imperialism, how they don't have a voice in the decisions of their own people and are overlooked.  
> Does that make sense? I hope so, I should work on it. It's important because Vanir and Vanes look different from each other and I'll also bring it up later on.


End file.
